Her breast of broaden chest
by a sheet pulled across in the night
tangled by twitching feet
a mixture of movements
unsure toes singing
songs of unsettlement.
And her brow
furrowed as her teeth set
What does her throat yearn to garble?
instead of yarble
as her wrists slither along
like Cleopatra's snakes
that whisper trails of burnt red
and blotched white.
Bedded portrayals of lovely betrayals.
Because the guilt is clawing up
transpiring from the floor
like a mutant through a wall
weaving through taught bed springs
as a mouse after cheese
bursting from the indented mattress
like a monster in a horror movie
to grasp her
and pull her
until her screams ring out sharp
and scissor through paper dreams
before the weight crushes her.
as the Red Queen did to cards,
It was only a game
as silly games do,
someone had to lose.
Fay sat with Benedict
on the grass outside
Banks House. He wore
his faded blue jeans,
white tee shirt; she
wore a lemon dress
(one he liked) with
small white flowers.
It was warm, a summery
sun was in the sky,
trains moved over
the railway bridge
just over the way.
She talked of a nun
at her school, who
was strict and carried
a ruler around to hit
the hands of girls who
spoke out of turn.
Benedict sat cleaning up
his six-shooter toy gun,
wiping his handkerchief
over the silvery barrel.
Girls live in fear of her,
Fay said, she creeps behind
them and pokes her
finger into their flesh.
Have a teacher at my school
who pokes with a pencil,
Benedict said, digs it right in,
especially when he’s making
a point about something.
Fay’s eyes caught the sun’s light;
he thought he could see angel’s
playing there. She caught me
over my knuckles last week, Fay said.
Did you tell your parents? he asked.
God no, she said. Daddy would
have beaten me for sure; upsetting
nuns and such. O, he said, he loved
the way her fair hair shone in sunlight,
the way she moved her lips to form words.
He put his gun back in the holster
(the one his old man had given him)
around his shoulder. She spoke of
the mass and the priest who came.
Benedict didn’t know what the heck
the mass was, but he just listened to
her talk, watched her lips make words
like some potter makes bowls.
He studied her hands as she spoke,
how they gestured along with the words;
small hands, thin fingers. He couldn’t
understand how anyone could want
to slam a ruler over such thin knuckles.
She spoke of the Host and that it was Jesus
in the form of bread. He was stumped,
but listened on, taking in her every word,
the sound of the word, the way she
shaped it, the way her tongue seemed
to hold then throw out the word.
Then she stopped and pulled off her
yellow cardigan because of the heat.
He saw on her upper arm, a fading
green bruise, like damaged fruit gone off.
She put the cardigan on the grass,
and talked on about confessions,
about the confessional, how dark it was,
how the priest was hardly
visible through the metal mesh.
Benedict half listened; too concerned
about her bruised fruit flesh.
Your life is just a work of art
A masterpiece painted
By some big brain
With double-folding sentience?
Do you ever consider
The beauty of the detail(s)?
What if that weird coincidence
That happened today
Really wasn't a coincidence at all?
What if there are no coincidences?
What if when we go to sleep
Our brainwaves change
Because our minds go elsewhere
And it's best we just forget
When we wake?
What if reincarnation is real
And just at a universal scale?
What if life didn't originate on Earth?
What if there's something huge about
That we don't yet understand?
What if everything is a computer simulation
And everything above the first dimension
Is just a folded-up illusion?
What if we're not the only ones out there?
What if one time
At some random point
Along your vision's axis
You stared right at a planet
That harbored life?
Or even a star system?
What if religion and science collapsed in
On each other?
And what does this whole Eye business
What if the multiverse
Is more connected
Than we ever imagined?
What if God is a number? (a chuckle)
What if God is all the numbers
And combinations of them
And possible functions
And every algorithm
Every discordance and solution?
What if fate and free will
Don't really hate each other,
And it's just a game they play?
What if, just as we imagine characters,
Scenes and fiction
And paint them with words, sounds, and pigments
Our lives and interactions
Are painted by some society of higher beings,
In some fractalesque twist?
What if perception and emotional value
Are just the icing on the cake
And they are what makes life more
Than numbers and figures?
What if art
Is more than human?
What if the magical spells we once dreamed of
Have become our reality-
Songs, pictures, symbols flashed on the TV...
What if it really is like good guys vs. bad guys
And it's all just whispered above your head
Just within earshot?
What if it's not so black and white
And our only true villain
Is the stupidity of the mob?
What if it's somewhere between
Like it usually is?
What if we were always happy
Or always sad?
Would there really be a difference?
What if you could escape the circular nature
What would you see, looking down?
What if every system is circular
Because they're all gears
In some big surreal machine?
What if you're dreaming?
Nope, still here.
What if you're not dreaming at all
And it's really just that strange?
What if everything that could happen
And you are only allowed to see one of each?
What if the laws of physics
Are only so set in stone
In this universe
But there are others that vary?
What if the speed of light
Is the universal speed of time?
What if I'm actually dead
And this is just a virtual world
And I'm living through a computer?
What if reality is a very complicated computation?
What if I woke up as someone else tomorrow morning?
Would I even realize it?
What if one of my poems caused two people to meet
and fall in love? that'd be cool
What if one of my poems accidentally somehow set off
A chain of events that killed someone? that's weird and sad
What if gravity were as strong as magnetism
Or the other forces?
We'd surely have no planes
And getting up in the morning would suck even more
What if for once you were grateful and happy to wake up in the morning?
Ooh, got you with a tinge of guilt din't I?
What if the whole thing was a joke and no one likes getting up after a nice rest?
What if looks didn't affect judgment so much?
What if this is your very last breath?
If so, look out-
What if my imagination didn't have a bottom?
What if the act of believing in something
Made it true?
What if my red was your blue?
What if you could see tenfold more colors then most humans
Because you had an extra type of cone in your gene code?
What if the very fundamentals of science you were taught in school
Were mass-spread so no one could know how strange the universe really is?
What if the moon landing was fake?
What if conspiracies don't really affect you that much in the end?
What if there was an underlying pattern of questions and statements
Following a free-flowing logical train here?
What if it just crashed?
What if when the light went off on your webcam
That didn't mean it was inactive?
What if you had something to hide?
What if they're out to get you?
What if they're everywhere?
What if it's way over your head
And it's time to get out of the house?
What if Uncle Ben never got shot?
What if Tony Stark is just a friggen' badass genius dude wonder?
What if some levity never hurt anyone, but what if it did?
What if some guy was telling a joke, not paying attention
And he fell and broke his left arm?
I bet it's happened on numerous occasions.
And statistically, probably more if you change it to 'right'!
What if you didn't help that old lady cross the street?
What if the old lady never crossed the street
And she just sat there forever like a lost puppy
Doesn't it just make you want to cry?
What if you were sitting on that thing you're looking for the whole time?
What if your life is a TV show
It's all staged, Truman!
What if I'm not real
And a secret artificial intelligence project
Wrote this to test how convincing it is?
I promise I'm not but you have no way of knowing!
What if some of you start to suspect me of being a robot?
What if in some ironic twist of fate that made someone crazy obsessive about it
And writing it led to my very death?
What if I'm just here for the ride
And I don't have time to worry about things like that?
My eyes are getting heavy...
As much as they tell me
I need to focus.
I need to concentrate...
And leave the la-la-land dreamscape
Of my head,
I'm proud to even
I m a g i n e.
My cousin Floyd was one.
He would prowl the night spots
When the moon was full.
One minute. Shooting the breeze
Next he would excuse himself to use the facilities and sneak
Out the bathroom window.
Quiet as a weremouse.
They say he was smitten
And bitten by the girl next door she
Was a bit hairy but.that's no reason to
Jump to confusions.
what about the gent in sheep's clothing.
When I was a kid if you were accused of
selling wolf tickets, you had a
poker face while holding a bad hand
Feeling froggy but having no hops was another
Lon Chaney JR.
howled at the moon in black and white
In that case his howl was worse than his bite.
this poem is lacking in teeth.
64 squares and 32 pieces
white and black or black and white
pending your thesis
whether your black or white
they all have the same features
8 pawns, simple creatures
8 x 2 is 16
infantry disguised as peasants
trying to get above the 7th
to the 8th and replace
their meager form for something more severe
2 rooks, sitting on the edge
2 crooks robbing everything perpendicular
to the perimeter provided the king
doesn't falter in his pledge
When the night rolls through,
the knights roll through.
Puffing green goo, these squares or cubes
will move an L make a 7 and snuff you.
The bishop will say a blessing
as he stumbles across the board.
Moving forward diagonally,
these drunken priests drink towards
a leader hung with dressings
The queen? That greedy broad
thinks everyone is a pawn.
constantly placing her place
in the face of those trying to take her place.
The king orchestrates the beat
carefully placing his feet before god.
His feat is living, no great givings,
giving up the wrong square will make his crown your treat
Bloodied and broken on the cruel, hard ground,
Life slowly slipping away.
In awful, violent, glory he’s crowned,
A martyr of the fray.
His story draws life,
On muralled walls,
With those who fell before him.
Adorned in green, white, and gold,
His community come to mourn him.
A dollar deal
fun for all ages
cartoon wood owl
lingers shallow sky
like a feral flag.
Black disc eyes
rattle plastic sockets.
Painted plumage surges
fast ripples that
shiver synthetic feathers
and crinkle wind.
Orange streamers whip,
and twist like crooked ribbons
Out of breath!
Out of shape!
Oiled families point
my stepdaughter blushes,
I gallop like a madman
splash over seashells
and crab holes,
dragging a stubborn symbol
I cannot wrangle
The leash has snapped!
My body fails!
Broken nylon falls
like tangled web,
my handful of slack
spills like silk
when i trip in sea weed
and accept this refusal
knowing we share
the same fates,
crashing into white sand
a folly for sunny strangers.
Well, it begins with Rugrats,
we were babies back then who wanted to explore the world and get out of that baby pen.
And on to the playground where you can meet your friends.
Just like in Disney's Recess.
Where you have the athletic, academic, artsy, scary, socially awkward, an then there's you.
Who thinks he likes an Ashley.
Oo that's scandalous. But you just think she so god damn fabulous.
But your friends don't see how her personality just drives you crazy.
Because back then every girl had cooties.
So you put on a show and kept it on the down low.
so you keep telling yourself how life "whomps."
Until you tell that special partner, like Lilo and Stitch.
You make the perfect pair.
Where she's not 626.
But your number 1.
Where she's Belle and you're the beast.
Where she's Snow White and you're the dwarves.
Where she's Cinderella and you're the prince.
Where once you were together, you never wanted to leave since.
The story may not be over.
But all I know is that it'll end
Happily ever after
I felt it
creeping through my fog
white and shining
treading the light
kicking away the gray
nipping at my toes
but I couldn't stop the black
from tickling its fingers
up my spine
funny, how such
can turn this lovely white mist
into a deep
I'm walking on ink
staining not only
but my worn out
how could I believe
that something could really
I was treading the light
but now I'm drowning
he makes his rounds down by the 59th Street Bridge:
one leg bends, the other stays straight.
you can't miss him, he's darker than night‒
pasty white lips, coffee cup jingling,
and a fresh clean suit to really catch your eye.
"shit, look at that guy!"
I've heard people say.
he's been at it for years,
rattling that damn cup once the light
it must be working,
there's always a different suit.
throw in rush hour and bridge cleaning
and you know it falls like rain.
but one day I saw him walking along 31st Street,
pacing, hustling, both knees bent.
he moved better than I did,
dress shoes and all.
I pulled up and honked:
"feeling good today, huh buddy?"
pasty lips kept it at full stride,
rounding the corner with
no shame in his step.
it wasn't long before I got stuck at that light again.
of course, out came the hobble and the sound of loose change.
I believe the lady in front even handed him a bill.
and when he finally made it over to me,
the only thing I could do was grin.
a guy like that, you just have to
let him go.
from Dizzied By Chance: Poems of a Fringe Existence (2013)